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“Fine.” I go back to the car and slide into my seat. He sits and closes the door. Tires squeal as Hank peels away from the street just as sirens wail in the distance.
“Give me a reason. Something. Anything,” I say. “Why did you blow up the place?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Corrado takes out some gauze from a first aid kit he retrieved from somewhere in the car. I was too busy with the explosion and stress to notice he’s carrying a kit for cleaning up his wound from the dog bite before the blood starts dripping on his pants.
“You’re going to deny it?” I ask. I wish my brother had done the same. I wish he’d denied what he did the way I would’ve denied it on the witness stand. They never called me to testify. He wouldn’t let them near me.
“Nothing to deny. It was a gas leak.”
Oh my God. I run a hand through my hair, then fidget with it. “Why? Why did you do it? We could’ve just driven off, albeit with the dogs.”
“You like her?” Corrado points at the dog, then rips the gauze wrap with his teeth.
“She’s pretty.”
The bottom piece of gauze sticks to the blood, but the top one keeps sliding off his forearm as he tries to wrap it himself. I scoot over and touch the top of his hand. “Hey,” I say. “Let me help you.”
Corrado looks up, our eyes locking. Just when I think he’ll refuse, he hands me the wrap. I start swathing his arm, not asking anything more, because I know he won’t tell me.
“I did it,” he starts after I finish with his arm and roll the sleeve down to cover it. “Because people must pay for messing with my wife.”
“Christ, Corrado, I’m not really your?—”
He fists my hair and presses a palm over my mouth. Inches from my face, he asks, “You like Hank, hm? You want him to live?”
Wide-eyed, I nod.
“Then mind your mouth. If me and you have a secret agreement, that secret remains between me and you, not me, you, the driver, and the dog.” He releases me and rolls his shoulders as if letting off pent-up aggression.
I bite my lip. “I don’t want anyone doing things for me that can get them in trouble.”
“I don’t require your permission.”
Jesus. He can be such a dick.
12
A DASH OF SUGAR WOULDN’T HURT
MICHELA
The car ride back into the city remains quiet, with Corrado typing furiously on his phone while also silencing incoming calls. Worried about what I witnessed, yet less rattled than before, I settle into wringing my hands in my lap and chewing on my lip when I notice we’re pulling into a car dealership with luxury cars on display.
“Is this your stop?” I ask.
He looks up from typing on his phone. “A friend of mine owns this place.”
A nagging feeling in my belly makes me uncomfortable. “Are you buying a car?”
He narrows his eyes. “Yes. Join me.”
Before I can accept or reject, Hank’s stopped, and Corrado exits and heads toward the office, where a short, stocky man wearing white suspenders with black pants and a black shirt stands to greet him. A pair of diamonds in each of his ears glistens in the strong noon sun.
In the rearview mirror, I catch Hank watching me. “I know nothing, ma’am.”
Oh please. “You know more than I do.”
